Detained
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: What happens when the only person who knows where Dean's laid up, hurt and helpless, is delayed?


_Previously appeared in _Ouch! 20 _(2008), from Neon Rainbow Press_

**Detained**  
K Hanna Korossy

It was like the Murphy's Law of shopping: the more you were in a hurry to get out of there, the longer the line was.

Sam fidgeted in place, grimacing and rubbing the back of his head as he glanced at his watch again. The girl in front of him turned to give him a suspicious look, and he managed a wan smile for her that vanished as soon as she turned back. He took yet another glance at his basket, verifying once more that he actually needed all this stuff right now—orange juice, soup, gauze, and the small pharmacy bag of antibiotics he'd already collected—and, yeah, he did. Or rather, Dean did. Sam winced again, shuffled, and stared at the front of the line where a distracted young couple argued with the clerk over God knew what. Would anyone stop him if he just dropped a twenty on the counter and took off?

He wasn't even supposed to be here, honestly. Dean was freshly diced up, sewn up, knocked out, and sick with blood loss and incipient infection in the motel down the street. He was running a fever that Sam was keeping a wary eye on, and it would be a few days before he'd be coherent or strong enough to look after himself. Sam should have been there with him, not fighting the late night crowd at the local mini-mart. Already Sam was running late, the first two stores he'd gone to already closed. Even the few minutes delay in ducking out for supplies had made him antsy, let alone the over half-hour it had already stretched to, and that was before everyone else had chosen that night to shop late.

Sam sighed, tallying the cost of what he was buying in his head. Exact change would save him at least a few seconds. Maybe he could use his height to intimidate the arguing couple into hurrying it up…

They finally finished their transaction and left, and Sam barely glanced at the leather-clad man who stepped up to take their place. Not until he heard perhaps the last words he wanted to at that moment.

"This is a hold-up."

Sam's eyes flew back, taking in the glint of chrome in the man's hand, and he groaned to himself. Did people even say that anymore? And why tonight of all nights?

Sam slowly, discretely, set his basket down on the racks of candy next to him and slipped a hand inside his jacket. Unlike Dean, he didn't automatically carry wherever he went, but having your brother nearly killed tended to make you a little paranoid. He slipped out the Beretta and angled for a better position.

Even with his height, he couldn't see exactly what was going on up front. But it became amply clear a moment later when the robber suddenly whirled, the woman behind him clasped against his chest. His gun was at her throat, and Sam felt the balance of power shift ominously away from his favor.

"Nobody move or I kill her." The calm the words were spoken with was also a bad sign. Crazy and edgy weren't good, but they spoke of inexperience and weaknesses. This was the voice of planning and control.

The man's eyes shifted, found Sam's, towering over the girl in front of him. "You. Step out where I can see you."

Sam flinched and dropped the Beretta in the basket before moving out, hands spread unthreateningly at his side. "No one's gonna try anything, all right?" he cajoled in soft tones that usually worked on everything from freaked-out victims to confused spirits. "Just get what you came for and leave, and nobody has to get hurt." How long had he been away from Dean now, anyway?

The barrel dug harder into the woman's skin, making her cry out. "I know nobody's going to try anything," the gunman sneered. "That's because you all are going in the back."

Okay, this was starting to become a real problem. A long line Sam could deal with, if just barely. Being stuck playing hostage in a hold-up? Huh-uh. Dean had been restlessly fearful when Sam had left, out of his head and ill and weak. No way was Sam leaving him alone while a punk with a gun herded them into the back for reasons that couldn't possibly be good.

Sam was already shaking his head. "Hey, you have the gun, you have control here. Just take the money and go, all right? You'll get out of here a lot faster."

"Shut up," the man spit, and stepped out of line, jerking his head toward the back. "All of you, get moving."

The clerk, a shaky surfer-type teen with braces, started moving. The other customers shuffled with frightened uncertainty after him, heading toward the door to the right of the register.

Diplomacy wasn't working. It was time to take this guy out. Sam eyed the door, the gunman, the woman he held, making calculations of distance, reaction time, angles, and speed. Maybe he didn't have Dean's short fuse, but he wasn't a Winchester for nothing.

Which didn't help at all when the robber suddenly thrust the woman at Sam and stepped back, widening the distance between them. "You two, go. Don't try anything or you're first," he warned Sam.

Sam tensed in rebellion. And a second later, realization hit him like a punch.

If he went down here, Dean had nobody. Nobody who knew where he was, hurt and defenseless. Nobody who would come looking for him or look after him. Sam was it. Which meant risking himself meant risking Dean. The former was a given. The latter…no. He couldn't. Not even for his brother.

Hands held up in reluctant submission, Sam moved, dull flares of anger fighting with worry in his gut. Dean had been pretty out of it; Sam had hoped he wouldn't even realize his brother had slipped out for a few moments. Maybe he still wouldn't if those moments became an hour. If the guy just locked them in the back room, Sam could have them out as soon as the gunman was gone. Maybe this wasn't a real problem yet. Maybe Dean would sleep through it.

The robber gave the woman a shove, pulling a panicked scream from her.

Maybe Sam wouldn't throttle this guy afterward.

The gun jerked, hurrying them along, and Sam led the shell-shocked woman with him, drawing as close to the gunman as he could without it looking like he was trying to get close. But the guy knew what he was doing, stepping back when Sam got too near, never looking away, never letting anything interrupt the line of sight between Sam and the weapon. Sam's heart sank a little with each step toward the back, feeling the first stabs of real defeat.

The small crowd of customers and employees huddled in the middle of the storeroom, eyes wide and frightened. Not a single cop or ex-military person among them, Sam quickly noted, nobody to help. He was on his own, and even as his gaze swept the small room looking for exits, weapons, even cover to hide behind, he felt the gunman's presence at the door.

"You." Again the gun flicked his way. "Tie them up. Make sure they're all braced against a shelf."

Sam had half-turned to look at the man, gaze passing over features he'd already committed carefully to memory. "With what?" he asked flatly. "Dude, you don't have to—"

"Shut up." It was said with equal calm. The man nodded to something by Sam's hand. "Use those."

Sam glanced over, shutting his eyes briefly in resignation when he saw the long zip-ties bundled on the metal shelf.

"Now!" the gunman barked, and Sam started moving. At this point, speed in obedience would help this be over faster, even if it was not going as he'd hoped.

He moved swiftly through the group, gently urging people to sit down against a shelving unit, then binding their hands. He made sure his body was between each person and the gunman, scanning every customer for a possible ally, a weapon, some sign of defiance amidst the fear. But they were all frightened, cowed, defenseless. Each one succumbed meekly to their bonds, not making any move to take advantage of the screen he briefly offered. The gunman checked each one after Sam moved away from them, and he lost a little more hope with each.

And then he was the only one, and Sam stood, facing the gunman, gaze defiant and dark, just waiting for the robber to get closer and try to tie him up himself.

The gunman seemed to realize his mistake at the same moment. With an angry curse, he knelt by the woman he'd used earlier as a shield, never taking his eyes off Sam, and, with a knife from who-knew-where, sliced her hands free. She clambered to her feet tensely, and he prodded her toward Sam. "Tie him up, tight."

Sam seethed, every muscle bunched, as the woman's small hand closed on his arm. He'd barely looked at her, couldn't have said if she was twenty or forty. He only had eyes for the man who was keeping him from Dean, who thwarted Sam's every idea as soon as he had it. Dean would have appreciated a good tactician, seen it as a challenge to be overcome. Sam wished he'd gotten the nervous kid pulling his first hold-up. There hadn't been a single misstep to exploit here, and his body screamed to move, put this guy out and get back to his brother. A feverish Dean alone in a roomful of weapons…

Sam stiffly sat down on the floor, glaring daggers at the hold-up man.

The woman fumbled the zip-tie, and, for a moment, Sam thought he'd finally caught a break. But with bad timing, she regained her surety, weaving the plastic around Sam's wrists and the metal strut of the shelf, pulling it so tight that circulation immediately dropped in the limbs. Sam couldn't hide his wince, and the woman blinked at him. "Sorry," she murmured.

He nodded, looking past her at the gunman again.

He checked Sam's hands, careful to stay clear of his legs, then took care of the woman, tying her up where Sam had bound her before. Only when he was sure they were all secure did he stick his gun into his jacket pocket. Sam's stare followed him as he reached for something on one of the shelves. It was a roll of plastic bags, and Sam cringed anew as each bag became an effective gag, quickly yanked through jaws and tied off in the back. The gunman seemed to use extra force with him, Sam's mouth instantly starting to ache from the strain on the corners.

Sam stared at him darkly as the man backed away, but it didn't seem to faze the robber in the least bit.

His words were to the group at large, but his gaze pinned Sam, and there was a smirk in them, so cruel and unlike Dean's playful one that it made Sam's stomach turn. "Just a little insurance, although no one could hear you back here, anyway. I'm sure somebody'll be by in the morning to let you out." Then he flicked off the light and shut the door behind them, leaving them in inky darkness.

The woman near Sam began to cry, her sobs muffled through the plastic.

Sam tuned out the tears and mumbles and stirs, and started flexing the zip-tie, looking for a weakness. He chewed on his lip as the sharp plastic bit into his wrist. There would be no slipping out of them, and the one weapon he had left, a pocketknife, was out of reach. The shelf behind him was crammed full and didn't even tremble when Sam heaved at it. No one else had been close enough to help, not that he could see them now, and the gags effectively limited any other form of communication or cooperation. Which left the slow way: sawing the tie against the metal shelf and hoping it gave before his patience did.

Before Dean's agitated sleep did.

Heedless of the way his hands were going numb and his wrists flared with pain, Sam began to move his arms up and down.

His mind drifted as he worked. It wandered through his memories, all the times he'd woken, disoriented and hurt, to find Dean waiting next to him, ready to anchor him with an explanation and soothing and the promise he wasn't alone.

Then there was the scene from the night before, Dean milk-hued and bloody but with strength in his grip as he twisted a hand in Sam's shirt and pulled him close, demanding if he was all right before passing out himself. Worried only about Sam leaving, voluntarily on his feet or involuntarily in an ambulance, a body bag. Utterly confused, even when Sam kept assuring him that his little brother was there and all right, first in the car, then while he fixed Dean up in the room.

Waking up dazed and alone while Sam was gone. Because he'd had to go out and get orange juice.

Muttering muffled curses, Sam moved faster, harder, ignoring the trickle of blood down his wrist, the taste of blood in his mouth from his torn lips.

There was no way to measure the passage of time except by his growing fear. The people around him had quieted into numb silence, some even apparently dozing, and the night seemed to be passing with frightening speed. Sam's internal clock judged it to be about four hours since he'd slipped out of the motel, which was about three hours and fifty-five minutes too much. There was no way Dean, sleeping so fitfully, hadn't roused in that time. Would he just go back to sleep? Try to make it to the bathroom? Or in his bewilderment, set out to look for Sam? Every possibility seemed to snug the fear even tighter around Sam's heart and spine than the zip-tie was around his bloody wrists.

_Had been, _past tense, as after one more hard yank, the plastic suddenly gave with a snap.

He was free.

Sam bounced to his feet, trying to rub circulation back into his swollen hands, then pulled the bunched plastic from his mouth so hard that it snapped. He worked his jaw back into nominal functioning as he moved toward where he remembered the light switch was. A flick from almost-bendable if sausage-like fingers, and suddenly a half-dozen bleary pairs of eyes were blinking up at him.

"Uh, I can't stay, but…" Sam leaned forward around the woman and flicked open his pocketknife, making quick work of her bindings. "Call for help," he told her earnestly, and nodded at the others. "Get them free if you can." And without waiting for acknowledgement or thanks, he was gone.

Sam snagged the basket on the way out, his gun still thankfully nestled at the bottom. He'd earned this much, even if the sight of the supplies made him wince now. Angling himself unobtrustively away from the in-store camera, he strode through the dark store. The handwritten "Closed" sign on the door made Sam shake his head; the hold-up guy had thought of everything. Sam tried the door, found it unlocked and, seconds later, was running down the street as fast as he could go.

The motel room door was closed, the Impala still parked in front of it. Small favors, Sam gasped for breath, and yanked his key out.

Even in the wan light streaming in from the parking lot, he could see the bed was empty, sheets and blankets rumpled and trailing to the floor.

"Dean!" he called, voice cracking, pushing the door open and turning on the light.

The blood trail would have led him there if his eyes hadn't immediately jumped to the half-dressed figure curled on the floor past the end of the bed.

"Dean," Sam said mournfully, and shoved the door shut behind him as he crossed over to his brother and went down on his knees. "Hey, man, what're you doing on the floor?"

Dean was shivering with chills, his face flushed with fever. Red soaked the bandage that was wrapped around his side to his back. His eyes were half-open but unmoving, seeing nothing, and his mouth formed silent syllables. Neither flickered in reaction when Sam's fingers pressed against his neck to check his pulse, or slid his damp, plastered hair off his forehead.

"Dean, can you hear me?" Sam asked softly, knowing the answer but asking anyway. He peeled back one corner of the bandage and frowned at the pulled stitches he'd meticulously placed hours before. Five hours and ten minutes; he'd checked while running back. "Dean? Hey. I'm here now. I'm here."

The glassy eyes slowly blinked, but didn't shift. Dean's lips paused, then began opening and closing on their soundless litany again.

Sam cast a helpless glance around the room. He'd thought at first glance that Dean had been trying to get to the bathroom, but not only was that the wrong direction, it was unlikely considering his dehydration and confusion. The weapons bag, however, was only a foot away, and Sam felt his heart break a little at the thought that Dean had crawled out of bed for that, for something to defend himself with because he was on his own. Because his instincts expected a solo life rather than a shared one, even if his heart yearned for it to be the other way around.

It was hard to argue with an empty room, though.

Sam slid an arm carefully under shaking shoulders, tilting Dean in toward him, then under his knees, lifting with a grunt. His wrists complained at the further abuse, his puffy hands, and Sam totally ignored them. He just bent low to talk into Dean's ear as Dean startled, tensing instinctively, and moaned. Dean's lips stopped moving while Sam talked, starting up once more as soon as he went quiet.

So…he kept talking.

"Dude, I'm sorry, I was just gonna run out for a few things, and next thing I know, this guy is holding up the place. I mean, what kind of jacked timing is that? Sometimes, man, I think we really are cursed."

He laid Dean out gently on his side, tucking a pillow against his back, and covered him with the blankets Sam had collected from both beds before. He used the corner of one to wipe the cold sweat from Dean's face and neck, then pulled all the covers back at the middle just enough to get to the bloody bandage right above the waistband of his shorts.

"Don't worry, nobody got hurt. I think this guy was either a pro at robbing stores, or was ex-military or something—he never gave me an opening and he handled his piece like a pro. Scared the crap out of the customers, but everyone was okay. I just figured you'd miss me back here." Sam's brief, tentative smile vanished quickly as Dean shuddered, insensible.

The kit was still strewn over the other bed where Sam had used it before, and it didn't take long to collect a new needle and thread and alcohol wipes. Disinfecting the area as best he could, Sam numbed it, then began stitching his brother together a second time. Dean's eyes squeezed shut.

"None of the hostages were hot, so I didn't get any numbers for you, but I did pick up some juice and meds. Think you're probably gonna be running an infection from where that rusty metal got ya, man. We're gonna have to keep an eye on that, the next couple of days."

Dean trembled, hands closing into fists under his chin. Sam stopped long enough to gently tease one open. It gave at his touch, then closed hard around his fingers. A lump wedged itself into Sam's throat.

"I'm not leaving again, Dean," he whispered. "I promise."

Dean's grip didn't loosen, and Sam finally slid free with regret, laying Dean's hand over Sam's bent knee, instead. It curled loosely around his thigh, and Sam kept sewing.

"So, anyway, this guy, he marches us into the storeroom and has me zip-tie everyone there, then this woman does me. Don't say it," he quickly added with a small smile. Dean's eyes fluttered, mouth opening as soon as Sam fell silent. He immediately plowed on. "Took me a couple hours to cut free. The guy's probably skipped town, but I'm gonna find him, Dean. You know I will."

Stitches done, Sam smeared the black thread and torn skin with antibiotic cream and covered it in the newly acquired gauze. Then he tucked the blankets back around Dean, examining his face. It was a study in contrasts: pale skin and fevered cheeks and dark-ringed eyes, smooth in unconsciousness but underlaid with tension, eyes closed but mouth moving.

"Hang on," Sam said softly and rose, sliding out from under Dean's hand. He went into the bathroom, collecting a glass, a wet washcloth, a mug, then the orange juice and pills on the way back. The washcloth he draped over Dean's forehead, and the pills went in the mug along with some codeine. The glass ground them fine enough that when Sam added the juice, the powder dissolved completely. He slipped a hand under Dean's head and lifted. "Drink up, bro."

His body knew what it needed even if Dean wasn't as aware. He drank it all, choking a little at the end. Sam laid him back down, nodding in approval.

"Okay. It's gonna get better soon, I promise, all right?"

Dean started up his silent monologue again.

Sam squeezed his brother's blanket-clad shoulder. He was so tired, up late fixing Dean, then spending half the night riding an adrenaline wave in a market storeroom. His emotions were too close to the surface, his reserves of strength gone, and he couldn't keep his aching hands from shaking in reaction as he rubbed his sore jaw. Sam tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder, desperate for at least one of them to know the other was there.

Dean's lips faltered, eyebrow creasing.

Sam straightened, hand pulling away. "Dean?"

After a moment, Dean started talking again, and this time there was the faintest breath of sound.

Sam leaned forward, tilting his head to just next to Dean's mouth. Just barely picking up the chant.

_"Sam…Dad…Sam…"_

Sam blinked back the burn from his eyes and leaned his forehead against his brother's shoulder.

Again, the litany tapered off.

You stopped asking when you got what you needed.

Fine. Sam kicked his sneakers off and climbed up onto the bed beside Dean, wedging his face against his older brother's spine and throwing an arm over his side. It was the same way Dean had curled around him when Sam was a kid and needed proof even in his sleep that he wasn't alone so the nightmares would stay away.

Dean sighed and sank into the pillow, lips half opening and staying that way as he slid deeper into sleep.

Sam soon joined him.

00000

He let Dean decide when it was time to tell him the full story.

It was two more days before he was aware enough to notice the abrasions around Sam's wrists and ask about it, and that was Sam's cue. He settled at the end of the bed, one leg bent under him as he talked, and Dean wedged himself tiredly up against the headboard to listen.

Sam told him all about the hold-up, including the part where he'd tracked the robber down the next day to a chat room, of all things, figured out where he lived, and shared that information with the local police. The only part Sam hadn't mentioned was the half-hour it took him to make that call while he replayed the memory of finding Dean bloody on the floor and wrestled with the desire to go pound the guy's face in first.

Dean's brow was furrowed at the end of the tale. "That was it? He didn't hit you or shoot you or anything?" His voice sounded rusty and old, the effects of lingering weakness and fever.

Sam let a small smile slip. "I think you would've noticed by now if he shot me, Dean."

"Yeah, well…" A shake of the head. "Dude, you know, your real superpower is attracting this kind of stuff. The _mini-mart_? You know you're not going shopping alone again, right? Ever."

Sam sobered, looking at his hands draped limply over his lap. He glanced up at Dean's sigh, to see his brother's half-pained, half-worried expression.

"You've been thinking again, haven't you? What did I tell you about that, Sam?"

He ignored the tease, speaking with fearful earnestness. "Dean…if something had happened to me that night, nobody would've even known you were here. You could have bled out on the rug and they wouldn't've found you until they wanted the room."

"I wasn't helpless, Sam," Dean said with thin indignation.

Sam just shook his head again, face downcast. He really didn't need to relive the last few days of his brother hurting and out of it, not even for Dean. The despair spiked through him anyway, however, sharp and fierce.

"Sam…"

He blinked, looked up to see Dean watching him with dark eyes. Then sighing, leaning back.

"While you were at school, Dad and I hunted separate a lot, you know that. There were a few times…" Dean swallowed, shook his head, and his attempt at a smirk failed badly. "Well, let's just say passing out on the floor in my own blood? Not exactly a new experience, dude. After I got away from that adlet, I almost called you, Sammy. Couldn't stop puking or bleeding—I was pretty messed up."

"Why didn't you call?" Sam asked hollowly, the picture Dean painted too vivid in his mind's eye. So much he'd missed, blithely off seeking normalcy.

"You deserved to have your life." Dean shrugged. "And I survived."

Sam closed his eyes.

"Sam, don't, that's not why I told you this." Dean blew out a frustrated breath. "You don't get it, do you? You know, for a college boy, you're really pretty dense sometimes."

Sam reared up, affronted, to see Dean smiling a little. But there was no sarcasm in it, a rare open display of affection.

"_You're _my back-up, Sam. And that? Is a lot more than I had before."

"I'm just one person, Dean," Sam answered helplessly.

"So? Who says we need more? I mean, yeah, we're gonna find Dad someday and that'll be even better, but for now? I'm not complainin'. You?"

The corner of Sam's mouth twisted up. "No." Even at school, how many times had he wished if just Dean were there… He'd never asked for more, either.

"'Sides," Dean said, sliding down a little in the bed with one hand pressed over his side. "I've got my hands full with just one of ya. Don't think the world's ready for more, Sammy."

Sam, leaning forward to help him, swatted him with a pillow instead, eliciting a pained laugh. "Jerk."

Dean's no-doubt loving response was swallowed up in a yawn.

Sam smiled. "Get some sleep, Dean."

"Call out for pizza," came the slurred response from the depths of the pillows. "Don't go anywhere to…get…" He ended in a soft snore.

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam promised into the quiet of the room.

**The End**


End file.
